


Anything You Need

by bcbdrums



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Tags Are Hard, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:17:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9580181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bcbdrums/pseuds/bcbdrums
Summary: Just then, from a distance they heard an odd rumble and both looked back in the direction it had come from."What was that?"  John asked.  "Lorry backfiring?"Sherlock's eyes danced as he searched his mind for the answer.  The game was on."Explosion," he said as the answer reached him.  "Come on!"





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: It's fic writing/posting day for me! This AU one-shot was inspired after I read two brilliant fics by BrosleCub12, "Rebuke" and "Absolute." Do give them a read! Those are canon-compliant. This most definitely is not.
> 
> This picks up in the scene in The Final Problem where Mycroft has to be a client before Sherlock and John will listen to him. This fic has nothing to do with Eurus. It's Sherlock and John, like all my fics. I'd say enjoy, but this one will probably hurt... Hope you read the tags. You've been warned!

 

* * *

"This is a private matter."  
  
John moved to rise, but Sherlock's voice stopped him.  
  
"John stays."  
  
Mycroft leaned forward in protest.  "This is _family!"_ he hissed.  
  
"That's why he stays!" Sherlock suddenly shouted.  
  
John couldn't help the bubble of joy that rose in his chest at the acknowledgement.  
  
Mycroft tilted his head in that condescending, knowing way that reminded John too much of Moriarty and rankled Sherlock as he knew he was about to be told he'd missed something.  
  
"You do realize you are referring to the man who beat you half to death."  
  
Time stopped.  
  
John watched the slow parting of Sherlock's lips and the slight widening of his eyes as the shock of the words hit him.  
  
For his part John felt a tightening in his chest and an inexplicable worry that began swirling darkly around in his soul.  In a flash he remembered the few words he and Sherlock had exchanged on the subject.

  
  
_"Sherlock," he said, drying his tears on a napkin this time instead of Sherlock's shirt._  
  
_"Yes?"_  
  
_"I'm sorry, about...about the hospital.  For hitting you.  And..."_  
  
_"Kicking me repeatedly?" Sherlock filled in with raised brow as he shrugged out of his dressing gown._  
  
_John flinched.  "Yeah."_  
  
_"It's okay."_

  
  
And that had been the end of it.  Because his phone had rung at just that moment with a call from Molly confirming the impromptu birthday party.  
  
But as the silence stretched into several seconds and his chest only constricted more, he realized it wasn't enough.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock stood with a resolved fire in his eyes and pointed deliberately toward the door.  
  
"Get out."  
  
Mycroft smirked up at him.  "Struck a chord, have I?"  
  
"Get out.  Leave us alone."  
  
"I thought you wanted to hear about our little sister."  
  
"Get _out!"_ Sherlock thundered, stabbing his finger toward the door again.  
  
John watched Mycroft lift his brow, take a breath...and then cross his legs and fold his hands across his lap.  
  
His smirk grew.  
  
Sherlock's chin trembled as he frowned.  
  
"John, get your coat."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Get your coat, let's go," Sherlock said, stepping past Mycroft and hauling John up with a hand on his bicep.  
  
"What?  Sherlock, where are we—?"  
  
"Anywhere!"  The word burst from his lips like a fireball as he strode through the door, John stumbling as he was dragged along.  
  
"Sherlock!  Let go!"  
  
But Sherlock didn't, pulling John down the stairs and past Mrs Hudson's door and not releasing him until they'd reached the coat rack.  
  
The detective threw on his coat in a whirl and had grabbed John's before he had even recovered himself.  And again John found his arm in the detective's firm grip and he was shoved out the door ahead of him and down the steps.  
  
"Sherlock!" he complained as he nearly lost his footing.  When he turned around his coat was tossed into his face and he caught it with an annoyed cry.  
  
He dropped the coat from his face to see Sherlock striding briskly down the street.  He pulled his coat on as he hurried to catch up.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asked with a gasp as he reached the detective's side.  
  
"I told you.  Anywhere."  
  
"You forgot your phone, you know."  
  
"No I didn't.  Do you have yours?"  
  
John felt the front of his pocket for the device.  "Yeah."  
  
Sherlock held an open palm in front of him, and John instinctively placed the phone in his hand.  
  
Then he jumped as Sherlock began bending the device with his hands.  
  
"Oi!!"  
  
John lunged for the phone, but he was too late as he heard it crack under the pressure Sherlock was putting on it.  
  
The detective then stopped, dropped the phone on the pavement, and ground it under his heel.  
  
John's fists were clenched at his sides, his expression tight and downcast.  "I had photographs on that."  
  
"Probably still recoverable," Sherlock said, placing the crumbling device into his coat pocket.  
  
"Why...did you do that?"  
  
"Harder for Mycroft to track us," he said as he continued walking and without warning ducked into an alleyway.  
  
John followed in a hurry, watching the stiff back ahead of him.  
  
"You didn't forget your phone."  
  
Silence was the only reply he received, and he was forced to simply match pace with Sherlock as he took turn after turn, doing his best to make certain the British government was unaware of their whereabouts.  
  
Finally, when John had lost track of where they were, they emerged onto a busy street and Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled them quickly into a crowded Pret.  
  
"Coffee?" the detective asked tersely, looking up at the menu.  
  
John watched Sherlock's face, tense and unreadable.  The mask was perfectly in place.  He would have to wait until things were on Sherlock's terms before he found out— _if_ he found out—what was going on.  
  
Sherlock paid for their coffees and sandwiches, and they sat at a tiny table close to the toilets and pressed into a corner.  The foot traffic was heavy, but listening ears were few.  And there was no CCTV.  
  
When John had finished half of his meatball sandwich he set it down, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and folded his hands.  
  
Sherlock looked at him in a mix of surprise and trepidation.  
  
"Well?" John said, gesturing slightly with both hands before refolding them.  
  
Sherlock swallowed a sip of coffee but kept the cup in his hands.  "Well what?"  
  
"What are we doing here?"  
  
Sherlock looked away anxiously.  "I...should think that was obvious."  
  
"I know we're avoiding Mycroft, but...what are we really doing?"  
  
Sherlock looked back at him, his eyes scanning his features repeatedly.  
  
"I should have thought that was obvious too," Sherlock said more quietly.  
  
John blinked at him several times.  Waiting.  
  
No— Refusing.  
  
Denying.  
  
Sherlock of course, deduced him as always, and rose to the occasion.  
  
"I'm...sorry about him.  He's not good with...humans."  
  
A tiny chuckle escaped John's lips.  "Neither are you."  
  
"No," Sherlock agreed, shaking his head.  
  
The detective looked down at his coffee, took a breath, and looked up again.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
John smiled tightly and looked away.  Of course, it was impossible to avoid now.  
  
"No," he said crisply, shaking his head.  
  
"It's okay, John."  
  
"You said that before," John said sharply, looking back.  "And no it's not."  
  
His voice came out in a hiss as tears began glistening along his lower eyelids.  He pursed his lips and looked down at his hands, where his knuckles were white from being gripped so tightly.  
  
Sherlock looked at his coffee again, his lips pulsing slightly as he searched for words.  
  
"All right," he finally said, and John looked up.  "All right, maybe it's not okay.  But I don't care."  
  
"What?"  
  
"John, I strung myself out on drugs to get your attention.  Do you really think it mattered to me if I—"  
  
He stopped suddenly, biting down on his words.  John watched him with narrowed eyes.  
  
"I'd have done anything," he finally said, looking into John's eyes.  
  
John closed his eyes with a gasp and looked down, fighting against tears.  
  
Sherlock frowned and glanced around the cafe.  "Come on."  
  
Their lunch forgotten he led John by the wrist quickly through the kitchen, much to the annoyance of the cafe's staff, and out the back door into the alley.  It was, as Sherlock had hoped, deserted.  
  
"John.  It's okay," he said again, now they were alone.  
  
John's fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes tightly closed, and his head downcast.  
  
"You were already half-dead on drugs, and I very nearly finished the job.  So no, Sherlock, it is not okay.  It will never...be...okay!"  
  
The last words were shouted into his face, and Sherlock took a step back despite himself.  
  
John turned and put his fists high up on the wall and rested his forehead against it.  
  
Sherlock watched his friend struggle and wondered what, if anything, he could do.  
  
"John," he began, as something occurred to him.  
  
John's forehead remained stubbornly planted against the wall.  
  
"John.  What would you do for me?"  
  
The odd question finally brought John around, and he turned with a bewildered expression.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What would you do for me?"  
  
John put his hands on his hips and shook his head in exasperation.  "I don't understand."  
  
"You've killed.  Broken the law countless times."  Sherlock took a deep breath.  "But Mary leapt in front of a bullet for me.  Would you?"  
  
John's expression slowly morphed into an angry, disbelieving grin.  He snuffed loudly and wiped his nose with his sleeve.  
  
"You know what?  Piss off."  
  
"What would you do for me, John?" Sherlock repeated insistently, stepping closer.  
  
John lifted a hand to halt him.  "Really, Sherlock, I'm warning you."  
  
Sherlock kept on toward him.  "She _died_ for me."  
  
"You—!" John cried as he swung a fist wildly forward.  
  
Sherlock allowed the punch to glance his chin and then stepped back just out of reach to stall any others that might be forthcoming.  
  
John's jaw fell open as he realized what he'd done.  
  
"Go on then!" Sherlock said.  He straightened up and slowly opened his arms out to his sides, looking at John.  "If it's what you need!"  
  
John shook his head, gasping for breath as he stared at his friend in confusion.  
  
"I _know_ what I will do for you.  John."  
  
John shook his head again, blinking repeatedly as tears threatened to fall from his eyes.  
  
"Anything.  Whatever you need, whenever you need it."  
  
John closed his eyes tightly and looked down.  
  
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"I'm so sorry," John said through sudden sobs.  And then gasping, he looked up and met Sherlock's eyes deliberately and desperately.  "I'm so sorry."  
  
Sherlock smiled for the briefest of moments as he gazed at him with concern and reassurance.  
  
"Anything," he said again with a firm nod.  
  
John shook his head a third time, in self-loathing, disbelief, and in awe.  
  
The sobs ceased and John wiped his nose with his sleeve again, and his eyes with his hands.  
  
"Anything," he said hoarsely, returning Sherlock's firm nod.  
  
"I know," Sherlock said.  
  
Just then, from a distance they heard an odd rumble and both looked back in the direction it had come from.  
  
"What was that?"  John asked.  "Lorry backfiring?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes danced as he searched his mind for the answer.  The game was on.  
  
"Explosion," he said as the answer reached him.  "Come on!"  
  
Together they ran out back to the main road as that would lead them to the source most quickly.  They were on Baker Street again in minutes, and as the fire brigade roared past them John felt a sudden trepidation that he didn't often feel on even their most dangerous cases.  
  
"Oh...Sherlock!" he gasped as they rounded a corner to see the smoldering front of the first floor of 221B.  
  
They both simply stared, watching as the fire service deftly put out the flames.  
  
"Mrs Hudson!" John declared suddenly, grabbing Sherlock's arm and starting forward.  
  
But Sherlock didn't move, and John looked back in confusion.  
  
The detective's face was solemn, his chin slightly ducked.  His eyes were bright and his chin was shaking ever so slightly.  
  
"Mycroft," he said breathily.  
  
John's eyes widened and he turned back to look at the building again.  It wasn't even as bad as the time Moriarty had blown up the building opposite.  But if Mycroft had still been in the room...  
  
"But...surely he would have left after we did?" John said.  
  
Sherlock didn't even blink.  "Get me a phone."  
  
John nodded.  "Right."  
  
He hurried off toward the gathering crowd, many of whom were taking photos and video on their phones, and procured one easily.  He was back at Sherlock's side in less than a minute.  
  
"Here," he said, handing the device over.  And then out of the corner of his eye he saw her.  "Look, there she is!  She's all right!"  
  
Mrs Hudson was being led limping from the building by one of the firefighters and was passed off to another rescue worker who led her to a waiting ambulance.  
  
John started toward her and this time Sherlock followed.  He had dialed a number into the phone and was holding it up to his ear.  
  
"Oh, boys!" Mrs Hudson cried upon seeing them and rushed over despite the drag of her left leg.  
  
"Mrs Hudson, are you all right?" John asked.  He could see no outward signs of injury despite the limp.  
  
Behind him, Sherlock began to frown as the phone rang out.  He dialed the number again.  
  
"Yes, yes, but it was horrible!"  
  
"Was Mycroft with you?" John asked, glancing over his shoulder.  
  
"I was climbing up the stairs, and he saw me and shouted 'no!'.  And then everything just went up!  I could feel the heat as I fell down the stairs."  
  
Sherlock lowered the still ringing phone from his ear and let it fall to the pavement.  
  
"Oh my...Sherlock!" John shouted as the detective bolted past him and ran toward the building.  
  
John followed in a hurry, calling after him with every step.  
  
"Sherlock, stop!  You don't want to see!" he cried as they ascended the stairs, pushing past the firefighters.  
  
Sherlock reached the door to the sitting room and halted as if hitting a brick wall.  
  
John reached his side a moment later and peered in past him.  
  
"Oh!" he cried, choking on the bile that rose in his throat.  
  
Amid the sounds of flames being hissed out by water, a mobile was ringing with the tune of 'God Save the Queen.'  Halfway through the chorus, it abruptly stopped.  
  
John closed his eyes and refused to let his mind process the smells.  
  
A shout from a rescue worker brought his attention back.  "Oi, you can't be in here!"  
  
John watched as Sherlock turned, unblinking, and calmly descended the stairs.  John followed on his heels.  
  
They exited the flat into the blinding sunlight, and Sherlock turned in the direction they had gone before, walking slowly down the street.  
  
John stayed at his side, watching his face with every step.  He heard Mrs Hudson call after them, and another voice asking about a phone.  But his gaze never wavered from Sherlock's pale face.  
  
Just over a block away, Sherlock turned into the alley they had escaped down before and several steps later stopped to lean heavily against the wall.  
  
John moved to be in front of him and took in his friend's wide, vacant eyes and parted lips.  
  
Shock.  Of course.  And there would be grief.  Perhaps anguished cries.  Guilt.  Regrets.  Maybe even angry displacement of blame, and manically thrown punches.  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
The man blinked for the first time and looked first at John, and then at their surroundings.  
  
He hadn't even been paying attention to where they were going, John realized, either moving on instinct or just—John swallowed anxiously—just trusting _him_ to keep them safe.  
  
Sherlock's eyes landed back on his face, desperate, questioning.  
  
"Anything.  Anything you need," he said with a small nod.  
  
Sherlock blinked, his eyes going vacant again, and he nodded once as he leaned all the way against the wall and slid to the ground, resting his wrists on his knees.  
  
John moved in front of him again and sat back on his heels.  Watching, and waiting.  
  
Time passed.  
  
John's legs fell asleep, and he shifted position each time it happened.  
  
The sky began to darken.  And though neither of them had a working phone, John knew hours had passed.  
  
And finally, as he was beginning to worry that he would need to excuse himself to find a toilet, Sherlock stirred in front of him.  
  
A single blink of his bright eyes.  A slow, aching swallow.  And then his head lifted until it was leaned back against the wall and he made deliberate eye-contact with John and held it.  
  
"John."  
  
His voice sounded lost.  But his face was full of pain.  
  
"Yes?" he answered softly.  
  
Sherlock shook his head slowly.  "I don't know what I need."  
  
"It's okay," John said gently.  "Neither did I.  And I'm still...figuring it out."  
  
Sherlock watched him, waiting for him to continue.  
  
"It takes time, and there's no simple answer."  
  
Several things to say came to John's mind, but none of them seemed right.  And some were certainly more than 'a bit not good.'  He waited for Sherlock again.  
  
After a moment, Sherlock nodded, and his eyes gradually began to regain their usual focus.  
  
"I...don't know what I need," he repeated.  
  
John shifted again.  His legs really were hurting now.  
  
"Then...until you figure it out, let's go home."  
  
He rose and put both arms on the wall for support as normal circulation returned to his body.  
  
"Home?"  
  
"Yeah.  My flat.  And we've got to pick up Rosie on the way, and probably buy a phone.  Everyone will be worried about us by now."  
  
John watched as Sherlock processed everything in less than two seconds, and then nodding, stood up to join him.  
  
"And...when you figure out what you need...I'll be there," John said, starting out of the alleyway.  
  
He took a deep breath when back out on the main road, and Sherlock was at his side within moments, hands buried in his coat pockets.  
  
"What if...what I need..." Sherlock began slowly and John looked up at him, "...is impossible?"  
  
John blinked a moment, and then smiled gently.  His reply was soft and careful.  
  
"What would you do for me?"  
  
Sherlock blinked in surprise and his lips parted.  He looked at John curiously.  
  
John continued.  "I'll do the same for you."

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I think I am the only person who didn't actually have a problem with John beating up Sherlock in the mortuary. To me, it seemed entirely like something a grief-stricken living-in-denial John Watson of this universe would do. As was Sherlock's allowing it. You could see in TST that Sherlock already blamed himself without John blaming him. And John not dealing with his grief not to mention the cheating by foisting the blame on Sherlock seems totally natural. To me, the episode was perfect. One of the best in the whole show.
> 
> But that doesn't mean I won't write angsty fics about it anyway.


End file.
